We finally did it.

After two years of living with a Halcyon-shaped hole in my heart, I walked into Halcy-Con… and it felt like stepping back onto the ship again.

Not in a “perfect replica” way, of course. Nothing will ever truly be the Galactic Starcruiser. I’ve written before about how the Halcyon was more than just a hotel, it was a story we got to live inside, a place where friendships were forged and lives quietly changed in the glow of hyperspace. It was also the last place I saw my best friend and brother-from-another-mother, Scott, and that made losing the ship hurt even more.

In other words: it’s really, really not coming back. And that hit me harder than I expected.

Watching “Our Ship” Become Office Space

For a long time, there was this tiny, stubborn part of me that kept hoping the Halcyon might be reborn.

Maybe they’d rework the concept. Maybe they’d open it as a more traditional hotel. Maybe it would come back as a special event space, or a dinner show, or something that still honored what it once was.

Instead, we’re watching it be stripped down, reconfigured, and turned into a place where people will swipe in with ID badges, sit at desks, and have meetings. Important work, sure, but not the kind of work where a Captain leans over and quietly asks if you’re with the Resistance.

Seeing aerial photos with dumpsters, open windows, and construction equipment outside what used to be our starcruiser… it honestly felt like a punch to the gut. The building was already closed, but now it’s like someone has taken the book off the shelf and is tearing out pages to write something new on top of it.

Intellectually, I can appreciate that Imagineers will be using that space. If anyone “deserves” to inhabit the bones of the Halcyon, it’s the people whose creativity made her possible in the first place. But emotionally? It still hurts. It feels like watching someone turn a beloved childhood home into a generic office park. Do the Imaginners feel that pain too?

Knowing all of that going into Halcy-Con added a strange weight to the weekend. It wasn’t just a reunion; it felt a little bit like a wake for a building that’s being erased from the world we can physically visit.

From My Blog Posts to Being There in Person

I’ve written so much on Happy Bunny Tales about what the Galactic Starcruiser meant to me, how it wasn’t “just a hotel,” how it became this incredible, immersive story we were allowed to live inside, and how our voyage became even more precious because it was the last time I saw my best friend.

I’ve written about the two years without the Halcyon.
I’ve written about missing the first Halcy-Con because of a family emergency, and how the community lifted us up and made us feel like we were there anyway.
I’ve written about the little ways I tried to keep the magic alive at home.

But walking into Halcy-Con this year made all those posts feel like chapters leading to this moment.

It was like I’d been writing around my grief, circling it, and Halcy-Con finally let me walk straight through it, with other people walking right beside me.

Stepping Into a Floating Memory

There’s this moment at any good convention where you realize, “Ah. I’ve found my people.”

For Halcy-Con, that happened almost immediately.

I saw familiar silhouettes, twi’leks, jedis, officers in First Order uniforms that looked like they’d just stepped off the shi[. I heard someone casually mention a muster drill, another laughing about a wild sabacc game, and suddenly it wasn’t a hotel ballroom anymore. It was a shared memory palace of the Halcyon.

Everywhere I looked were tiny details that made my heart swell:

• Pins and patches only Halcyon passengers would recognize
• Handmade props and costumes inspired by our favorite characters and storylines
• Art of the ship, the crew, and even fan-created characters that kept the story going long after the final voyage

It felt like walking through a living scrapbook, curated by hundreds of people who had all decided, “No, this experience doesn’t get to just disappear.”

The Connections That Held Me Together

What made Halcy-Con so special for me wasn’t the schedule; it was the people.

There were friends I hadn’t seen since our voyage, where one hug erases two years of time. There were people I’d only known from usernames and profile pictures, suddenly standing in front of me in full color. And there were entirely new faces, people who never got to sail, but fell in love with the stories, videos, and community that sprang up around the Halcyon anyway.

Everyone I talked to seemed to carry the same mix of feelings: gratitude that we got to experience it, anger or heartbreak that it ended so soon, and now this new sadness that the physical space is being carved up into something unrecognizable.

And then there was Scott.

Even though he couldn’t be there physically, his presence was woven into so many conversations. People remembered posts, photos, stories. Some had never met him but knew how important that voyage was to us. To feel him honored and remembered within this community… that meant more than I can put into words.

Keeping the Adventure Alive While the Building Disappears

The irony of Halcy-Con happening while demolition and reconfiguration work is underway wasn’t lost on me. Out there in Florida, walls are being moved, interiors gutted, and wiring rerouted. On paper, it’s a “redevelopment project.” In our hearts, it’s the dismantling of a beloved stage where we once got to be the heroes.

But inside the convention?

We were doing the exact opposite.

Through panels, cosplay, fan films, art, music, and late-night hallway chats, we were rebuilding the Halcyon in a way no construction permit can touch. We were keeping its story alive in the most powerful way possible: by sharing it, expanding it, and inviting new people into it.

It struck me that the building might be turning into offices, but the idea of the Halcyon has never been more alive. If anything, the loss of the physical space has made the community more determined to keep the spirit going.

What Closure Looked Like for Me

Before Halcy-Con, I don’t think I had real closure.

The ship closed. Time passed. I wrote about it, cried about it, looked at old photos, and watched videos. I carried this quiet, irrational little hope that somehow, someday, Disney would change its mind.

Hearing that the building is being converted into office space, and seeing the words “demolition and reconfiguration” attached to a place I loved so deeply, finally shut that door in a very final way.

And weirdly, because of Halcy-Con, that finality didn’t break me.

Instead, it felt like the last piece of truth I needed to fully sit with my grief… surrounded by people who understood it. No more “maybe someday.” No more “what if they bring it back?” Just an honest acknowledgement:

The physical Halcyon is gone.
The building is being carved up and turned into bright, ordinary offices.
We will never walk those hallways again.

But the story we lived there? The friendships we made? The bravery it pulled out of us? Those are untouchable. Those don’t get demolished.

That’s what closure looked like for me, not forgetting, not “moving on,” but finally accepting reality while choosing, intentionally, to keep carrying the good parts forward.

Leaving With a Different Kind of Hope

When Halcy-Con ended and it was time to go home, I still felt that familiar little ache of “I don’t want this to be over.”

But this time, the sadness was mixed with something gentler: peace.

I left with:

• New friends and deeper bonds with old ones
• Fresh creative inspiration, fueled by shared love for this weird, wonderful, short-lived ship
• A clearer understanding that the Halcyon’s chapter as a physical space is over, but its legacy is absolutely not

Yes, it makes me deeply sad that the building is being gutted and turned into office space. It feels wrong on a gut level. But if there’s any small comfort, it’s this: the people working inside those walls will be Imagineers dreaming up future stories for others to live.

And we? We’re already proof that one “failed” experiment can still change lives, spark communities, and inspire art long after the doors are sealed shut.

Halcy-Con gave me connection.
It gave me joy.
And in the shadow of demolition and office conversions, it finally gave me closure.

The Halcyon will never jump to hyperspace again…
…but she lives on every time we tell these stories, create something inspired by her, or look at someone else who “gets it” and say:

“I remember. I was there too.”

May The Stars Light Your Way…

Tab’u tey!!!